


Poison And Wine

by stories11



Series: One Last Kiss [3]
Category: Spies Are Forever - Talkfine/Tin Can Brothers
Genre: In all seriousness though proceed with caution, M/M, Owen Hallucinations 2: The Electric Bugaloo, Vague references to torture, a lot of emotional bullshit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-28
Updated: 2018-04-30
Packaged: 2019-04-28 23:33:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14460234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stories11/pseuds/stories11
Summary: No one ever tells you just how much paperwork is involved when you go rogue, work with a former KGB agent, bring along two other agents in an act some might consider treason, and shoot your former partner in the face, regardless of how many people he 'allegedly' killed or that he was already considered dead when it was reported.-------------Set between after the events of Act 2 Part 6 with some divergence in terms of Act 2 Part 7, Curt Mega deals with the fallout that not only comes with the international scandal of Owen's death, and the destruction of the Chimera facility, but is also forced to come to terms with what happened during the Russian Affair, but the events of the previous days as well. Through the course of mounds of paperwork, interviews, and self examination, he finds himself forced to reconcile the agent he knew with the deadliest man alive. The ripple effect that follows his actions of that day is nothing that he or anyone around him could anticipate.





	1. Step One

     It would be come to known in the CIA as the Prussian Disaster. Perhaps not as infamous as the Russian Affair, but certainly close. A source for gossip as very few had more than fragments of the story, there's nothing like the appearance of Interpol agents to make the CIA turn into a rumor mill that could rival any high school. No one it seemed, had the full story, save for the star of the events in question.

     Special Agent Curt Mega was once a name whispered with awe and admiration, the model of what every agent hoped to be. Glamorous and adventurous, with just the right amount of cockiness and self assurance to make sure that he always got his way. Now they say his name differently, it's with suspicion, and questioning, for no one knows the story.  They've heard about two dead agents, a Russian, and a lab tech that's being interrogated in reference to a destroyed island in the Pacific Northwest now the cause of dispute between Canada and Iceland, but none of that compares even remotely with the discussion surrounding the formerly great agent's perp walk through the CIA headquarters. Some overly aggressive Interpol agent is half leading, half dragging the man through the halls and he certainly looks like he's seen better days.

     Three weeks have passed since the gala in the New Democratic Republics of Old Socialist Prussian Sloviskia, and he looks like he hasn't slept a day since. With dark stubble on his cheeks, and darker bags under his eyes, Curt seems more to most like a homeless man than someone who once walked among them. Sweatpants and an ill fitting shirt are nothing he ever would have worn to the office with any choice in the matter, but the most disturbing thing is his eyes. Anyone unfortunate enough to catch them might not notice that they're bloodshot and red rimmed for the fact there's something dark and alarming lurking behind them. Something uncharacteristic of Curt in all his days. Even following the Russian Affair he hadn't looked so utterly broken and changed from the usually jovial agent. Perhaps the most painful of the gazes though, is a striking blonde who he had lost the favor of many years ago. The look in her eyes as the Interpol agent is forced to release his arm to unlock the door seems to break him down further.

     "Curt." Her voice cuts like a knife through the air that's been so very alive with whispers, and suddenly all is quiet. A painful sort of silence that tells him that every single person in the vicinity is listening with baited breath. Expecting some sort of heated exchange between former lovers, perhaps a clue to what had caused their catastrophic fallout five years earlier. No one in the agency could remember them speaking a single word to each other since it ended, exchanging no more than quick nods of acknowledgement when he'd come back to work. A connection to his fall from grace perhaps? Had she foreseen his downfall all those years ago? Was she involved somehow? Another turn of the rumor mill as no one spreads information more quickly than spies. A pause as they stare at each other in silence for a moment, and she takes a step towards him. "Curt... What have you done? What happened to you?"

     "Don't do this, Angelica." His voice is flat, and it shakes her more than the words themselves. There's so little emotion that is scares her, and she steps towards him. Close enough that he thinks he can hear her heartbeat or maybe that's his own beating far too fast for his own good for any number of reasons. Unable to keep holding her gaze it falls and he can see the necklace he bought for her just barely slipping out from beneath her collar and his heart beats a little harder to mend the sudden break in it. _Oh, Angie, you never understood_. His chin tucks down, touching his shoulder with eyes closed. "Not now."

     A perfectly manicured hand rests on his bare forearm for a moment and the contact causes a sharp flinch. The sharp image of Owen's fist connecting solidly with his jaw. Hands being forced behind his back, tightening hand cuffs, more blows. The only contact still sharp through the haze of the recent weeks is Owen's fist, and now Angelica's hand. A contrast that's nearly dizzying, and he looks back to her for the fraction of a moment that it lasts. He's surprised to find that their silent language from all those years ago still transcends the vast divide that's opened between them, but not as surprised as he is by what she's saying with a single painfully soft look. _Was it him?_

     Were it anyone else, were it any other time, other place, he would pretend not to understand that look. The language that they've spoken to each other when they couldn't make a sound. If he were stronger, if he didn't hear the whispers echoing in a way that seemed to taunt him without end. The mutters about dead agents, and everyone knows that one is the informant. They've already felt the loss of him. He was the best at his job. The other though, that's a mystery. They're intelligent though, it's why they have their jobs in the first place. Murmurs of why Interpol is involved have bred assumptions that it must be a foreign agent. Paired with the ripples in the intelligence community that say that an agent once believed to be dead was revealed to be the Deadliest Man Alive before being gunned down, and it's not hard to piece it together. A blink, and a twitch of the mouth is all he needs to communicate back in their secret way. _Of course it was, who else?_

     "Hands off the suspect." Four words and the blonde is forced to take a step back and the silence grows deeper. The air seems to grow thinner with the sudden intake of air. Suspect. Not agent, nor prisoner, _suspect_. Everything is changed by a word and the rumor mill takes yet another turn as Curt finds himself pulled away from Angelica's gaze and into the interrogation room.

     This sort of room is not unfamiliar to him, it might even be one that he's used before. Oh the irony of a now rogue agent finding himself on the other side of the table, on another day he might have laughed about this. Not today though. Not now. As the metal cuffs fall free, he settles in the chair with his arms out expecting the longer pair threaded through the hole in the table to take their place, only to be met with a grunt that sound to him to be filled with annoyance.

     "You can put your arms down, she doesn't want you cuffed. Despite warnings, she doesn't see you as a threat. Know this Mega, if you attempt to leave this room without permission from Agent Caulfield, you will be immediately classified as an international threat. If you attempt to harm Agent Caulfield, you will immediately classified as an international thread. If you so much as sneeze without permission from Agent Caulfield-"

     "I'll be classified as an international threat. I get the picture." His tone is dry and humorless, he's given similar speeches countless times, and he's in no mood to hear it from someone clearly new to the field trying to make a name for himself because luck of the draw gave him an international scandal. The vague air of disgruntlement doesn't go unnoticed, but apathy proves to be stronger as he leans back in his chair, staring at the mirror. In it he can see only his own reflection, and that of the agent in the room, but he has no doubt that the aforementioned Agent Caulfield is behind it, watching him. The unseen eyes burn upon him, even when he's left alone in the room. Idly, he wonders how long he'll be left waiting here. It could be hours, and he knows it. A classic interrogation technique. The only thing surprising to him is the lack of instruments for coercion. But then again, he supposes that if they were going to torture him, they'd be intelligent enough to do it outside of the CIA headquarters.

     With his head tipped back, he exhaled slowly, heavily. All of his therapist's teachings following the Russian Affair had come rushing back. Technicolor memories that once made his head spin have now made peace as he hears the voice echoing inside of his head. Don't forget to breathe. _Deep breaths. Do a couple of them with me now, just for practice_. Three deep breaths later, he hears the keycard click into the door and he's mildly shocked. The wait is certainly shorter than expected but it might just be another technique to throw him off balance. Something he'd be begrudged to admit that worked, if only slightly. Sitting up, he tries to be slightly more presentable, but a glance in the mirror says that it won't happen. Momentarily he wonders if Cynthia is back there, watching. An apology is aching to claw its way out of his throat, and make itself known. He hadn't meant to draw her into this mess, in fact he hadn't meant to draw anyone in at all.

     Tatiana was only involved because she'd saved his life. _I never properly thanked her for that_. Barb was involved because he had selfishly asked for her help to smuggle out whatever weapons she could for him, thinking that would be the end of that. _I should have known better I knew how she felt_. Finally came the informant, and all he'd wanted was some information and in turn he'd found a faithful ally until the end. _And look where that got him_. Perhaps the only thing that Cynthia can do that's worse than yelling is look at him with that disappointed air that she gets when he's managed to muck things up well past the point of no return. This fiasco might bring an entirely new meaning to that. The worries however about the formidable woman that is his boss ( _former boss?_ ) are put to the side as Agent Caulfield enters the room. The silence remains almost unbroken as she sets down her briefcase on the table between them and removes a recording device from within.

     Rather than paying attention to the device, he watches the woman. Certainly not as green as her counterpart, but rather well into her 40s, maybe even her 50s. It makes it easier to respect her at a glance, with her dark hair pinned up into a tight bun and her mouth forming a soft line. Not an angry sort of expression but a neutral one. The type that says she might not have made her mind up entirely yet, unlike many who have already spoken to him. They might as well have might have asked him who he's working for and to simply admit his guilt. Some of them had, but there's a chance that perhaps his voice might be heard by this woman.

     "This is Agent Florence Caulfield, authorization number 28343130, case file 6172017. It is October 8, 1961, first interview. For the record could you please state your first and last name?" The words are clipped, kept short and to the point. She holds the air of someone who wants to get things done. Something Curt can respect but also fears.  There is no telling if this desire to finish the case will work in his advantage or be the cause of his ultimate downfall it’s hard to read her expression, and what had first been a comfort in not knowing her standing was now quickly becoming a curse.

     "Curtis Mega." He tries to keep his voice more level than his nerves feel. He's preparing himself for the same questions he's been asked time and time again.  She’ll ask about Tatiana, she’ll ask about Owen, she will ask about the informant but not until later meeting. that's how these things work he's become quite familiar.  He used to be on the other side of the system, this side feels strangely familiar and yet alien at the same time. He doesn't know how to process it entirely but it's better than sitting inside of a prison cell waiting for something that may never come.

     "And for the record, do you know why you're here, Mr. Mega?"

     "I'm being held on suspicion of international conspiracy, treason, one count of murder, one count of assassination of a foreign intelligence officer... I think that about covers the basics." He could go on with a much longer list but it seems pointless. She already has a list of his crimes, so why do the work for her? They all know why he's here, so why keep asking?

     "Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Mega. Seeing as we're trying to gather all the information that we can, I'd like to ask you some questions."

     "You'll ask them anyways, won't you?"  It's funny how they keep trying to act like the questions are voluntary. as if they won't find other methods of extraction if he fails to cooperate.  After all he's been on the other side of the table he knows how these things go. The humor is less for her benefit than his own and the only way that he can stop himself from losing his mind. these sessions become so monotonous but he has to do something to tell them apart.  growing attached to the faces is a losing game, because there will constantly be new faces. new people brought in to examine them from a new perspective, that never really seems to offer any new insight.

     "Mr. Mega, do you know the location of the KGB agent you were working with?"

     " _Former_ , and no, I have no idea where she is." Of course she asks about Tatiana. She's the one they're most interested in, with Owen and the informant dead it looks better for everyone involved if they can pin everything on the russian.  He knows that makes him look bad to defend her but he can't help it. After she saved his life twice what sort of repayment would it be to sell her out to the people that would gladly put her in his position? There are passwords waiting for her It's become a question of how to safely deliver them  without either of them getting caught. It will do her family no good if they never receive the passports, and he’s being watched closely, so they all must wait.

     "And how do you know she's a former agent?"

     "Because she told me as much. Why would a KGB agent save an American twice?" Even as the Interpol agent’s  voice remains passive and neutral, Curt could feel himself becoming defensive, his sense of loyalty to his friend outweighing his sense of self-preservation.  It makes them both look bad and he knows it but it's hard to listen to them to slander Tatiana's name after all she had been through and fought for in an attempt not only to save herself and her family but to save his life as well. He would be a fool not to know that she has made sacrifices for him.

     "Is it possible she was trying to gain your trust?"

     "No." The answer is firm and unflinching. He knows that it will make him look bad but it's hard to care when it's Tatiana's name on the line. Of course he knows where she's hiding. He had helped her find a place to hide, supplied her with access to money and shelter, did everything he could in the hours before the agents came to collect him. It had been strange sitting beside Owen’s body making plans, trying to coordinate from another country to allow Tatiana her safety before her freedom as if there wasn't a corpse mere feet away.

     "You seem quite intent on protecting her. You do realize, Mr. Mega, that if you're lying to me that alone is enough to charge you with international conspiracy and treason?"

     "Well then, it's a good thing that I'm not lying to you."

     For hours they go in the same circles that Curt has grown used to and no more fond of since they began three weeks ago. No doubt they're trying to make him slip. Change his story or tell them some clue to find out where Tatiana has hidden herself away, anything to justify charging him and placing all the blame for the past month's events squarely on his shoulders. A more patriotic martyr there never was. But the slips don't come. Words are chosen carefully, so as to rephrase, and make his answers sound less rehearsed because he knows they're combing over every inch of his confessions and interviews to figure out exactly what can be pinned on him. The only thing that holds water so far is the murder of one Owen Carvour, but all of the facts add up to something sinister. Something that says that Curt was indeed acting in self defense. That there had been a standoff and with a gun to his head, the american had been forced to fire the first shot. Owen being disarmed before the fatal bullet us a secret that he intends to take to his grave for it's the linchpin that keeps his entire life from falling to pieces and the inside of a prison cell being where he spends the rest of his days.

     Only a few more months. Only a few more months. Only a few more months. It's a mantra he repeats to himself without end in an effort to reassure himself, even though he knows as well as anyone that they can come up with infinite numbers of reasons to keep him in a cell for as long as they want. Especially after the stunt he pulled at the World Peace Gala. In retrospect he can see the massive flaws in his plan, but he'd had to do something, anything, to try to stop the tragedy, even though he'd only managed to make it worse.

     "You're free to go, Mr. Mega."

     "I'm sorry, what?"

     "I said, you're free to go- you're still under investigation, so you will remain under suspension and will be obligated to continue interviews until the case is closed. You may not change your current address or leave the country until the investigation is over, but- you can go home, and stay there as long as you continue your cooperation. We'll schedule another interview soon."


	2. What I've Done

      When Florence had told him he was free to go, there had been a long silence as it set in, he watched her pack her things and leave, still numb with shock. The first thing to shake it is the startling sound of her heels making impact with the tile in the few seconds before the door swings shut behind her. It sounds suspiciously like gunshots to him with the way the sound ricochets around the hall. Or maybe that's just the trauma. It's hard to tell but he can see himself flinching in the mirror. It feels like a mockery, an imposter hiding in the glass. Some cheap imposter exaggerating his flaws, but he's forced to recognize his own reflection is just that. A reflection, unable to be forgiving or cruel, those jobs are left to the humans behind the glass. Chair scrapes loud and hard against the floor as he slowly stands, gives one more glance to the mirror and somehow he knows that he's manages to meet someone's eyes. A voice in the back of his head says that they're Cynthia's, but he's been lacking in confidence when it comes to these sorts of things. It's not as if he'll know for certain.

     Rising to stand, he feels unsteady, like the ground is rocking beneath his feet but he steadies himself and moves towards the door. With hand sliding along the wall, his fingers catch on the light switch and the hesitation is momentary at best. A quick flick of the switch and the room is plunged into total darkness. The paltry light on the other side is still enough to reverse the effect of the glass. It's strange that he knows that his boss is staring at a mirror, and yet still manages to maintain eye contact. It's stomach churning, and the air suddenly feels heavier in his lungs. They both remain still for a long moment, before the director moves her cigarette to her lips and takes a deep inhale, exhales a large cloud. The only communication between them is in the moment after, when she extends a middle finger in his direction, before exiting the room on the other side of the room, finally leaving Curt alone. A pause follows, savoring the first seconds of something resembling privacy in weeks, before he blindly searches the wall to return the lights to the room before he braces himself to face the world.

     When he steps into the hallway, every agent that had been hanging around the hallways in hopes of catching a repeat performance of the perp walk scatters. An instantaneous movement that happens without coordination. It is not the cursory appearance of Curt Mega, but the lack of handcuffs. With his hands in front of him, he rubs absentmindedly at the inflamed flesh of his wrists, still expecting the escorting agent to come out of nowhere and place him under arrest, but no one comes. Of course he isn't an idiot, he knows that people he once considered colleagues and friends are avoiding him as he walks these halls. It's too quiet, too empty, but he almost appreciates it. It's better than being bombarded with questions thinly veiled in small talk. He'd rather be alone right now, he decides.

     The walk through the maze of a building is long. He resorts to counting his steps to ignore the persistent feeling of being watched and the constant phantom voices that drift around corners. He's gotten to 1061 by the time he finally reaches the doors of the building, acutely aware that he lacks his belongings, but giving little thought to what that means for it pales entirely in comparison to the sight of the a bright sky, with nothing between his skin and the warmth but a cool pane of glass.

     A pause follows as he stares at his own reflection in the glass again, he blinks and for a moment he can see the man he was a short three weeks ago. _No, not three weeks ago, four years ago_. For a moment he swears he can see Owen behind him, but he is not smiling. With dark eyes and a hard line for a mouth, he can see a gun raising. Head whips around and he realizes that he is in fact as he was a moment before. His stomach churns violently, making one last glance to check for the Interpol agent, before he pushes it open and is greeted with the warm autumn breeze.

     First instincts are wrong, as Curt turns in the direction of the parking lot. It could be any other day, except that it's not. It takes several seconds to realize that it's not going to be there. A soft sigh emanates from his lips and he reaches for his watch to call a cab. Except it's not there, just bare skin. No car to drive, no keys to start it, no watch to call a taxi, no wallet to pay them. He curses under his breath only to find none of the words are quite strong enough to encompass his general anger at the situation. He's not a bad guy, never has been, and never will be. The intrusive ghost of Owen Carvour passes through his mind and he shudders. _Maybe not never_.

     Instead of turning to walk inside, collect his things and be greeted with more silence and walls, he exhales before making his way to the sidewalk. It had only been a short stay in the cells, but he's still recovering from the bullet to the stomach. He used to be able to run the distance easily, but even considering taking the running stance makes the wound in his side ache. _Five miles_ , he decides, _won't kill him to walk_.

     An hour later, he's breathing heavier than he should be as he walks around the side of his house, ignoring the questioning and judgmental glances of his neighbors. They never used to look before, he's sure, or maybe it's the appearance. In an upper class suburbia, his ratty sweats and t shirt are hardly the look expected of a man proven to make a substantial amount of money, but he can hardly find it in himself to care. A long hot shower is what he has in mind, before he can change into something that makes him feel more comfortable in his itching skin.

     It takes a moment to figure out which rock is the one before he spots it. A large lump of plaster painted to look like a stone, hidden amongst the others, and where many might have simply attached a key to the base of it, Curt took it a step further. Raising it high above his head, he threw it to the ground, smashing it into pieces, and revealing the key. Seven years he's been without need for it, but he knew one day he might, and it was the only way to ensure that if someone used it, he would infallibly know.

     "You alright there, neighbor?" An middle aged gentleman craned his head over the fence to his left, with more grey speckled through his chestnut hair than the younger remembered. It might have been considered the action of a genuinely concerned citizen if he didn't know better. No this is a man craning over the fence to understand the strange reappearance of Curt Mega who looks worse than he has since his retirement. He's in no mood to humor him.

     "I'm fine, Todd. You should probably get back to your mistress soon. I'd hate for your wife to get home and find her sister in your bed." The key clicked home in the lock in time with the dropping of Todd's jaw, and as the older man tried blubber out some sort of indignant response, the agent continued as though he'd never been interrupted at all. "Save your breath, I won't say anything, but the car is new, and-" The key turns in the lock as he steps over the mess of white powder and painted chunks of false rock, he'll clean it up later. "-you left the window open. She was faking it by the way."

     If Todd had a response to that, it was lost to him as he stepped inside and closed the door behind him. it only takes a fraction of a second to lock the door again, followed by attending to the alarm system that was already demanding a code be input to silence the sounds that would come in t minus 46 seconds if it was failed. Of course, he doesn't fail. Finally free from prying eyes, he let his shoulders drop and his eyes flutter closed for a few precious seconds. A moment of uninterrupted peace before he's forced to glance around at the mess left behind by the agents who had ransacked his house in search of evidence to be used against him. They'd found nothing, of course, or he wouldn't be here.

     Peeling away the shirt that clings in unflattering ways and in the most uncomfortable of ways, he drops the fabric on the floor to be dealt with later. There's already plenty of mess, why not add to it? Next, come the shoes. Kicked off and away as quickly as he can manage. A mental note is made to burn them later, along with the sweats that he has no desire to see ever again, but the thought of a hot shower for the first time in nearly a month sounds too heavenly to be surpassed by his hatred of his prison dregs. As he walks to the front of the house, he forces himself to ignore the further mess left behind. ( _What kind of animal wears dirty shoes on white carpets?_ ) He reminds himself to call a carpet cleaner in a day or two as he trudges up the staircase to the upstairs bathroom, passing through the master bedroom to toss more suitable clothes for after onto the bed, and grabbing a towel out of the closet in the hallway. If he continues to ignore the messes it almost feels like an average homecoming.

     The bathroom at least seems like it was left somewhat less of a disaster. All gleaming black tiles shine in the light, and he turns the knobs to let the water come to temperature as he rummages through a basket under the sink for plastic film to cover the wound he'll all but certainly have to redress tonight. He's certainly done worse for himself and for others. As he sits on the edge of the bathtub applying the covering, images of a night long passed filter into his consciousness.

 _"Stop fidgeting," he grumbles as he threads the needle with dental floss. The joys of being in deep cover and without access to a proper medical kit. Owen is just lucky that he happened to have a needle tucked into the lining of his jacket or they would have had to make do. "If you don't stop moving, I'll sit on you to make you stay still."_ _Another time this might have been taken as a joke, but there's a six inch gash in the older agent's back that can't just be left alone._

_"I'd like to see you try, Mega." The british agent muttered back, twitching yet again._

_It's not that he can help it, but it's infuriating because they're running out of time to deal with this. Usually he'd give more warnings, and usually Owen would have a clear opening to fight back, but not this night. Instead the older is slammed chest down to the floor, with the american straddling the small of his back and his free hand pressing down on the top of his back with more pressure than might be entirely necessary. They're in a rush. "I'll try to make this quick."_

Standing from his perch on the tub, he peels off the fabric on his lower half and kicks it away. More to burn. Rather than setting about that task, he steps into the tub for what he expects will be the most satisfying shower of his life. When the water hits his skin, he's far from disappointed. As the heat washes over him, he can feel weeks of poorly cleaned grime slough off and slide down the drain as his muscles begin to loosen and relax. He stands under the stream for what feels like hours, only urged out of it by the ache of his thighs and the exhaustion showing in the bags so deeply scored beneath his eyes. Real rest on a comfortable bed is calling for him like a siren, and with some reluctance, he steps out of the warmth of the water. After toweling off, he wraps the damp fabric around his waist and wipes away the fog from the mirror to get a better look at himself.

     He looks miserable, and older than he should. Like the last three weeks have aged him decades past his time, and he knows the scruff that's sprouted is doing little to help the situation. With a sigh of defeat he decides that the rest will have to wait, a shave is more desperately needed right now. An effort to feel more at home in his own skin. A straight razor is produced from below the sink, followed by shaving cream, and he almost despises the fact that this act will require staring at his reflection longer when he keeps seeing of Owen in the mirror, glimpses of Cynthia's disapproval, Tatiana telling him to go, the Informant going pale and slack with eyes still wide. Only half way through, he can hear someone at the door. Probably some bored housewife trying to get a peek inside under the guise of having made too many baked goods. If he had to put money on it, it would be Mrs. Ward, who could never leave well enough alone.

     Rather frustratedly, he wipes away the remnants of the foam still clinging to his half shaven face with a washcloth. For a moment he debates the merits of getting dressed, before deciding that wearing a towel and poking his head around the door is more than sufficient entire for telling someone rather pointedly to fuck off. Every single person on this street has secrets, and he knows nearly all of them. It's part of being a spy. He knows their routines, the ins and outs of the suburban mistresses and cheating husbands. He knows which parents only get through the day with a handful of pills and a bottle of wine. Who's having money troubles, who has cash to burn, and which teenagers sneak out at night to smoke, and drink. Whoever is at the door will go away of their own accord, or he'll make them. Looking through the peephole, he can see blonde hair, but little else. _Mrs. Ward, of course_. Wrenching the door open, he's already starting from the moment he opens it enough to poke his head around.

     "Look Catherine, I don't want your cookies or your brownies or- " It's like the air is sucked out of his lungs as the blonde on his doorstep turns around and the identity revealed.

     "I've been called many things, Curt-" Angelica quips with a smile that anyone but him would be fooled by. "-and I didn't bring any baked goods, but I liberate your things from the CIA. I thought you might want them back. You might still be under investigation but you're at least allowed to have your stuff back... So can I come in or are you just gonna make me wait out here? You know the neighbors might talk."

     Still stunned by her appearing at his door, he steps back and opens the door wider to allow her inside, forgetting for the moment that the only thing he's wearing is a towel wrapped around his waist. The blonde steps inside and the queasy feeling comes back in full swing as her heels click loudly on the tile of the foyer. More gunshots, more deaths, but there's no bloodshed and he's home safe and he knows it.

     "Nice outfit." It's meant to be teasing as she glances at him before producing his things and setting them on the table next to the stairs.

     "I wasn't expecting company." His hand falls to it in response, and grips tightly. There's something wrong here, he knows it, and he couldn't be more vulnerable. He should have gotten dressed, should have armed himself. Maybe Chimera had gotten to her too, after all they'd gotten Owen and she was easily his equal. At times she might even surpass him at times. A brilliant spy without the anger issues that the british agent had once exhibited so clearly, but she has her tells. You don't stay in a relationship with a fellow spy without learning these things. An action which breeds intimacy deeper than discussion, than sex, a secret that few others will ever truly know.

     "Do you like the new interior? I was in charge of designing it- I call it a different kind of clean... the sort that doesn't get you in trouble with the CIA..."  A gun is produced from her bag, one very familiar to the man, as it's placed on the table atop his keys and wallet. "Where'd you get the gun, Curt?" Her tone takes a much more serious turn and he feels even more exposed than before as her eyes bore into him as surely as knives. If a look could draw blood, this would sever an artery, perhaps several.

     "I'm a spy, Angelica, I have guns." It takes work to make his voice sound flippant and unshaking, and he knows she can see through it, but he has to try. Were it any other gun, it would be easier to explain, but not that one.

     "Right- because we all keep guns secret from Cynthia because it's fun. It's not like the CIA requires us to register every gun we own so that if the worst happens they can cover our asses. Cut the bullshit, Mega, why do you have this?"

     "Like you report all your weapons to Houston. It doesn't matter why I have it... If you have to know, it's a friends. I've been holding onto it.." Tone is forcibly made to be indignant, bordering on angry. As if he can't believe she's asking about something that trivial. To anyone else it would be. Unless she tested it for DNA. Unless she ran the ballistics. It's Angelica, of course she did both. Picking the gun up off the table she looks at it for a moment, turning it over in her hands.

     "This is a makarov, isn't it? Soviet made. You know if anyone else had found this you would have been a dead man." There's a silence that hangs between them for a second before she ejects the magazine and inspects it. Curt knows she knows exactly how many bullets are in the magazine, or she wouldn't have it on her person. She's just being dramatic, but to what end? The question remains answered, and she gives only a hum in response as she slams the magazine back into position, ejects the cartridge. In a single blink, he finds himself pressed against the door withe the barrel of the gun pressing into his chest. Anyone else he might be able to disarm, but he knows her. If he twitches the wrong way, she'll pull the trigger. "So tell me, Curt... Why the fuck does it have Owen Carvour's DNA on it? Better yet- why the fuck is it linked to _seven_ unsolved murders from the years he was missing? I'm only giving you one chance to answer this...  _Are you working with Chimera?_ "


	3. Ghosts That We Knew

     For all the times Curt has stood with the barrel of a loaded gun placed against his chest, this is the first and only time that he has ever truly feared that death will come to him. His vision swims and for a moment he can see Owen with an expression that he can almost see as sad. it's how he knows that it's not real. A hard swallow follows as the illusion shatters and he's left staring into the blonde's eyes, attempting to choose his words very carefully. This is a moment where the truth and a lie can both quite easily get him killed, so he must tread the thin ice he walks upon with the utmost care. "No."

     The gun cocks, digs a little deeper into his skin, and his breath catches in his throat as she repeats the answer back to her. " _No?_ You can see why I'm having some trouble believing you right now."

     That tone is sharp, angry, he can't blame her. In her position, he would have thought the same thing. He's not sure he would have had the same self control exhibited to keep it to himself. To do this himself and make the hard decision. "No. I'm not with Chimera, and before you shoot me, let me explain. Please-" There's a pause, before he says perhaps the riskiest thing he can. "-you owe me that much."

     "Oh, I owe you? I don't owe you anything, _traitor_."

     She moves the gun higher, presses it to his throat. _Hard_. Hard enough it feels like it's crushing his windpipe and it makes it hard to choke out the only word that might save his life. "Lebanon."

     There's a shift in the air, and her muscles twitch, for a moment he thinks it's his end. The gun lowers, and for a moment he wants to sigh a breath of relief, before he feels the weapon press into the fabric above his groin. He almost drops the towel. "One wrong move, and I shoot your dick off, and then I call Cynthia personally to drag you out of this house and throw you into the deepest, darkest hole that she can find. Believe me, I've seen some of them, and they make hell look like a paradise."

     So this is what it feels like to be on the other end of Lark's wrath. It's bone chilling, and all of the meager comfort he'd managed to absorb during his shower has long since left him. Nodding slowly, almost imperceptibly, he has no doubts that she would, or that Cynthia would make it her mission to find the deepest and darkest hole, and dig it even deeper just for him if it was true for all the hellfire she would endure. There's been enough with the Prussian Disaster and Russian Affair.

     "All of the murders... They were Russians... and I know you- I know you would have dug deeper than that. You want to see the pattern in them. If you dug deep enough... You would have found that they all had fake identities, and that they all worked for the same company. United Republics, yeah?"  He pauses, watches her eyes narrow and her head cant ever so slightly to the right. It means she believes him so far, she found the same evidence that he did. She's always been good at this line of work. "That company doesn't exist. Not really... It was a front, for the weapons facility that Owen and I..."

     He swallows hard seeing her muscles tense slightly at the british agent's name. For a moment he expects the searing pain of a bullet entering his flesh, but nothing happens. "...they were the survivors... the ones who got away. I thought he was dead... I was angry, and I needed someone to hate more than I hated myself... The CIA wouldn't have let me go off on a vengeance mission, I had to do it on my own. His gun was all I had left of him, and it was the only one not linked to me through the agency... I'm not Chimera. I never could be. If you think I would ever work with nazis... Then you might as well kill me now, because you never knew me at all."

     By the end of his speech, his breathing is ragged and uneven. He can no longer tell what she's thinking, her tells are unreadable for this moment because he's never seen her hesitate before. This is a language he cannot speak, a piece of her that is a stranger, and exposes the difference made by a five year sprawl. He wonders if he's going to die here, pressed up against a door with only a towel for covering, unarmed and pathetic.

     His eyes close during what feels like the longest minute in the history of existence before her voice cuts through the endless silence.

     "Okay. I believe you." A sigh of relief trapped in his chest starts to expel before she taps the barrel of the gun against his right cheek. "You missed a spot."

     Eyes snap open sharply as the fear returns, his entire body tensing violently violently as he looks at her smiling more genuinely than before. Never could he understand how anyone could snap so suddenly between moods. A skill spies like her ( _and like Owen_ ) seem to have the skill down to a science but he's never been able to shift them quite so suddenly. Mouth is moving, but all that's coming out is disconnected stuttering as he tries to force out the word sticks to the roof of his mouth. "What?"

     "Shaving... you missed a spot... go get dressed, maybe finish shaving. I'll be here." Her tone is light, casual, as though she hadn't been threatening in his own home, _with his own gun_ , mere seconds before. The whiplash is dizzying as she quite casually places the gun with his other belongings. "You should really think about getting rid of this thing. Sentiment or not, and I think not applies now, if anyone else had found that..." She trails off mid sentence, which is strange for her, but he doesn't question it. Instead he tries to ascend the stairs as quickly as he can, hearing her voice ring out once more when he reaches the top.

     "Oh, and Curt?"

     "Yeah?" Voice almost cracks with just a single word.

     "I'm sorry about Owen... I know he meant a lot to you."

     If he didn't know better, he would think she's being sincere. A violent swallow, and he walks away and pretends he didn't hear a word she said, despite the fact that they both know better. Some things are better left unsaid, maybe condolences are among them.

_"I'm sorry about your dad." The words sound hollow even as they enter the air. Curt knows he probably shouldn't say anything at all, but they force themselves out before he can think of anything else to change the subject when the british agent in all likelihood didn't mean to say anything at all. The absence is felt immediately as Owen rolls away from him, and sits up. Suddenly, the moment is over._

_"Don't be. You didn't know him."_

     Time feels unnaturally slow as he dresses himself, and he knows it's because he's trying to take his time in hopes that she'll leave him to some peace. All he really wants right now is some peace. _And maybe a drink, or twelve_. When he's finally in his clothes, he goes to the bathroom and finishes the job that he had started before she showed up. He looks more like himself, but he doesn't feel it. It's just exhaustion. Heavy and hanging on his shoulders in a weight that only grows heavier. Hesitating at the top of the stairs, he wonders if he could grab the keys and drive away before she noticed, but as soon as he set foot on the first step he could hear her voice from another part of the house.

     "I'm in the kitchen- please tell me you finished shaving. I think the only thing worse than that godawful beard you had would be if you only grew half of one... or maybe that would be better since only half of your face would be covered by it."

     "That was a great beard and you know it." He argues as he descends the stairs, sparing a glance to the keys, and considering the possibility of driving off once again. It's not that he doesn't like her or care for her company, only that he'd been hoping to have a single night to himself before a drop in like this.

     "You need to go grocery shopping. You have coffee and a few things in the pantry that look pretty questionable, but that's about it... I helped myself to the coffee by the way, You were taking forever to get dressed."

     Curt knows that she isn't dense, that she knows it was entirely intentional. Her message is loud and clear, she's not leaving yet, which means that she has more business that she hasn't taken care of. _Hopefully it involves less guns._

     Walking into his own kitchen shouldn't feel so much like entering the lion's den.

     The sight of Angelica clutching a cup of coffee with both hands and what he suspects must be an absurd amount of sugar given the lack of cream in the house is not an unfamiliar one. It reminds him of simpler days, when he was happier. When they were happy, Maybe his love for her had never been romantic, but it had been real nonetheless. There was a time when seeing that smile on her face would have been infectious and he would have her wrapped up in his arms in an instant, today he can barely stand his arm brushing hers as he reaches for a coffee mug and the pot. Filling it only half way, it doesn't take him long to figure out where the whiskey had been relegated to. He'll need to pick up more whenever he goes shopping, but that's rather low on his list of priorities at the moment. He twists the cap off and fills the mug to the brim before he places the bottle of liquor back in the cabinet and takes a rather large drink of his 'coffee' if he can even call it that anymore. If Angelica's expression is anything to go by, he can't. He knows her judgmental looks and the meaning of a brow arched at that precise angle. _Next she'll sip her coffee daintily and make some sort of comment about how early it is_.

     The mug of coffee is lifted to her lips and hovers there for only a moment before it's brought back to waist level. "It's a bit early for that, isn't it?"

     That almost earns a laugh, so she's not a total stranger to him. _Good to know_. "I haven't had a drink in three weeks, I've been in jail, _and_ you held a gun to my-" Cutting himself off he gives her a look, before deciding to continue in a slightly different way. "I almost got shot today. By you, I might add. I think a drink is in order,"

     "Touché." It's hard to combat that logic given that she had been ready to castrate him with a dead rogue agent's gun. They both know that she wouldn't have hesitated if the need had arisen, luckily, it hadn't.

     "So, are you gonna tell me why you're really here or are you planning on threatening me a few more times?" He says it as casually as he would ask about the weather, but if he catches her off guard, she doesn't show it at all.

     "What makes you think there's something else?"

     It's hard to remember that they're both professional liars and cold readers sometimes, but not right now. Right now he knows that she's lying through her teeth, because she's deflecting. It's her favorite trick. Lebanon immediately springs to mind as an example. Setting down the mug he stares her down, trying to fit together the pieces of the puzzle. The whole Chimera thing can't be it. That was personal. If anyone else had even suspected then he never would have been allowed to leave the CIA headquarters. There was a moment in the hall before the interrogation with Florence, but that might have just been a moment of shock. This is different, and he knows that she can see the gears turning in his head, but she neglects to say anything. it only takes a moment before it clicks into place.

     "Cynthia sent you, didn't she?" His tone would be incredulous or angry even, if he wasn't so goddamn tired.

     "She did." Angelica's voice is surprisingly neutral as she sips her coffee, eyeing Curt with some measure of caution as if she's about to tell him some very bad news.

     The nausea floods back in as his mind immediately flies to the worst possible scenarios. That he's lost his job permanently, that his mother is being brought in for for questioning, "What does she want?"

     "To know if you've lost your fucking mind."

     "She'll have to ask Interpol, I've seen enough shrinks tp last me a lifetime." The exasperation he feels shows in that moment, suddenly deciding to take a much deeper swig off of his mug in that moment. He doesn't need this right now, but when has Houston ever cared what he felt, what he needs. No matter what Angelica says she'll think he's crazy.

     "That's just it, Curt, she doesn't trust them."

     "Of course she doesn't."

     "No, Curt." The blonde sets down her mug and puts a hand on his arm and he almost flinches. "She doesn't trust them... because she wants something else too... she has a job for us."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to write another words 12k or so words by midnight so expect (hopefully) another 2-4 more chapters today because i'm impatient and when I get a chapter done I want to post it~


	4. Chapter 4

     "So I'm not the crazy one, she is, good to know." His tone is utterly dry in its humor, taking another drink off of his mug, wishing now that he hadn't bothered with the coffee component. Or the mug for that matter. Less dishes if he drinks directly off the bottle. Watching Angelica, he waits for a punchline. A joke. The funny part of what she's saying but there is no tell tale smile or mischievous glint in her eyes, she simply waits for him to recognize that the request isn't a joke. "In case you've both forgotten, I'm not an agent. Not right now anyways. Instead I'm being investigated because I killed a dead agent, and caused an international crisis. Even if I wanted to accept this job, I couldn't, and she knows it."

     "Why do you think she sent me instead of asking you herself?" The woman shrugged softly leaning her hips against the counter, and she watches him closely and she can see now why Cynthia sent her, and it's not just a matter of communications. His head dips, and his fingers pinch the bridge of his nose, cursing softly. He should have expected this was coming. "Come on... We'd get to work together again. Think of how fun that used to be... I need your help, Curt."

     The fake pout in her voice, the attempted damsel in distress narrative, whatever it is they must need him badly. It's not that which pisses him off most though, it's who Houston chose for this. An ex girlfriend would have been a low blow, but an ex fiance? He'd proposed to her in this very kitchen. An exotic locale of sorts with the missions that kept them trotting around the globe, suburbia becomes a strange destination in its normalcy.

* * *

  _Despite his concerns, his uncertainty towards the whole situation, he's been carrying the ring for weeks waiting for the perfect opportunity to ask. Lebanon had been a bust, as had Paris, and Berlin. At this point he's having a difficult time believing it's anything less than a sign that he's made a mistake. That he needs to call things off no matter how it might break her heart, it will be better in the end, whether she knows it or not._

_It's what he intends to do when he enters the kitchen, but then he watches her for a moment. The record player is spinning with some song spinning about the Heartbreak Hotel. She's always been a fan of Elvis but the coincidence is almost funny. With her hair messily piled on top of her head, she's in her socks and trying to do some sort of Elvis impression without burning dinner that only results in her hair falling in her face and scorching the sauce. It's that moment he realizes he could spend a life with her. A happy one at that. He can grin and bear the romance and sex, if it makes her happy he can handle it because it means that the woman sharing his bed is his best friend. If he was interesting in women there wouldn't be a single doubt that Angelica would be his type. Watching her try to salvage the sauce he takes a knee on the floor behind her with the ring box open in hand._

_"Angie." He says her name with a smile on his lips that he doesn't think will ever go away. He hopes it won't. If marriage means more nights like this, then that would be okay._

_"Hold on, I know I said dinner was almost done but I just burned it and I'm trying to figure out if I need to try to start over all together or not." She doesn't even glance back in his direction, too busy trying to save the food that he's fairly sure will be forgotten the moment she manages to turn around._

_"Angelica."_

_There's a softness in the way he says her name that throws her. Makes her turn around with the messy spoon still in hand and dripping red onto the freshly cleaned linoleum. It's one of the reasons he loves her, he thinks. The opposition to Owen. Blonde, and short, and always laughing, always messy in contrast with Owen's near clinical standards of cleanliness. The spoon drops and sends more splatters and it's rare to see her so quiet. So still._

_"Oh." A quiet sound of surprise as she sees Curt Mega, eternal bachelor and playboy down on one knee. The blonde would be hard pressed to admit it, but the first thought through her mind is that it must be a practical joke. That he'll rise any moment with a look of amusement and reveal the ring to be a cheap fake, and the proposal something to catch her off guard, but he doesn't._

_"Angelica Donerson, will you-"_

_"Stop." She cuts him off sharply, and she can see the shock on his face, the flicker of something that she can't quite catch. "Get up."_ _Slowly he stands, almost closing the ring box as he reconsiders what he'd done. Especially when he'd come in here with quite the opposite intentions in mind. "...the answer is yes."_

_Record skips to the next song almost perfectly in time with her saying yes, and it's his turn to stand in mild shock as he tries to comprehend the words that just came out of her mouth. She might as well have been speaking another language and he's not sure when he does understand if it's the reaction he wanted or not. "Did you just say yes?"_

_"I'm sorry, did you want me to say no?" Tone is teasing, light, but it gives him just enough time to collect himself and readjust his reactions._

_"Maybe I did-I mean there's plenty of other girls who would love to fill your shoes." It's a joke, but it's also not. As he places the ring on her finger, as she kisses him, he fakes the necessary enthusiasm. It's when she wraps her arms around him that the thought comes snapping violently into place. How the fuck am I going to tell Owen? Of course he'll likely understand, a product of the times they live in, but it feels unfair to Angelica._

_"What's eating you?" The words come tumbling out of the blonde's mouth while they're lying in bed that night, her head on his chest and his fingers in her hair.  
_

_"I just..." I wish I could tell you the truth. "...I wish my dad was around to see this."_

* * *

 "You really think you can just pull that pout and bat your doe eyes and I'm gonna do anything you say? You've got another thing coming, Donerson." The dark haired man's hands are shaking, and he grabs his mug as well as the blonde's, and throws them in the sink with more force than strictly necessary. One of them breaks on impact, but he doesn't care. He imagines that she thinks this is about the break up, that he's still angry about that when he was never even mad in the first place. Hurt, maybe, but not angry. Still, his voice drops and he can see his reflection yet again in the window, he just can't avoid it. "Visit's over, get out of my house."

     "Being a dick doesn't help anyone, Mega, or maybe you still haven't figured that out. I came here to ask for your help, what's your fucking problem?" Her voice climbs in volume, not quite reaching a yell, but it's close.

     "You've barely said more than a word to me for five years, and then suddenly you need my help? Fuck off. You're the one who called things off, you don't get to come back and ask for my help when it's convenient for you. Especially not after threatening to kill me and accusing me of working with Nazis." He's getting increasingly agitated with this entire encounter. With the continually switching emotions and moods and how she thinks she can simply waltz back in and get whatever she wants.

     "I left because you were in love with someone else, and we both knew it!"

     "Yes, of course, the fucking mystery woman. So named because not even I know who the fuck it was." It's a partial truth, partial lie. It's how spies conquer the world. Clinging to the pieces of truth that present themselves and twisting them to their own advantage. He's still not entirely sure what he would classify his feelings for Owen Carvour as, and the confusion is only amplified further by the recent events he still hasn't managed to process yet, but he knows he wouldn't call it love. Perhaps more importantly. it wasn't a woman either. Although some part of him still feels terrible for lying to her, it's outweighed by his sense of self preservation gnawing firmly at his heels. If she knew, it put her in danger, but not as much danger as it put himself in. "You know you're pretty shit spy if you're gonna accuse me of cheating on you without even knowing who with."

     "God, you're a fucking asshole. I don't know why I ever even considered marrying you." Her patience is wearing thin and it's scrawled across her face, her poker face crumbling and falling apart. "-And I never said that you were cheating, I said that you were in love with someone else. If it was just cheating, I might have been able to forgive you."

     There's no missing the hurt in her voice, and there's nothing he can say that he won't regret later, so he shuts his mouth definitively, opting to simply stare her down in silence as he waited for her to be the one to break. He knows she will, she did once, and she will again, so he must tell himself that it's the best option available right now. Even with her dry eyes and angry expression he can tell that she's on the verge of tears, and it's not fair to make her feel like she's lost her mind, that she's being paranoid and threw something away for nothing like this but what better alternatives does he have.

     "...fuck you, Curt." She doesn't have to say anything else as she turns and walks angrily down the hall, and slams the door violently on the way out.

     The clicking sound of her heels and the ultimate sound of the door slamming is enough to to bring him to his knees in the kitchen. _Bang_. The shooting range, updating his certifications.  _Bang_. The bullets whizzing past his head at the botched arms deal sting. _Bang_. Getting shot in the side after having to be saved by Tatiana. _Bang_. Failing to save the Prince at the World Peace Gala. _Bang_. The Informant dying. _Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang_. Missing Owen with every shot. He told himself at the time it was an accident, but now he's not so sure. _**BANG**_. 

* * *

_His hand is shaking as he watches the body fall onto the steps, a puppet with all its strings cut. An explosion of crimson splayed out on the stairs above him. In death, Owen looks more like the man that he once know, once perhaps- it's too late for those sorts of thoughts right now. Bodies have never bothered him, but this one will haunt him. A pale face with eyes still wide, a dark circle painted between them, with a dribble of blood rolling slowly down his face. A part of Curt feels an urge to wipe it away despite the mess behind him, he resists it with all he has. A few seconds later, he's sitting on the landing, unsure of how he got onto the floor but his hips are still sore from the jarring impact that he'll feel more deeply anymore. All other thoughts are wiped away as the abject horror of what he's done settles deep into his bones as he sees the disturbing Jackson Pollock painting that's been made of what was once the back of his partner's head._

_"Oh god." The words are whispered to the silent facility without expectation of being heard by anyone else, he just needs to say them out loud. Maybe he's finally lost his mind if he's willing to keep the company of a corpse. "...oh god, Owen, I'm so sorry... what have I done?"_

_The thousand possibilities that could have led to anything but this course through his mind and the weight of his guilt is heavy, and unrelenting. Deep down he might know better, that there wasn't even the semblance of another choice, that if he'd deigned to arrest him of course he would escape. That he would kill more innocent people and that he would be determined to end the world as they know it and dismantle everything they'd dedicated their lives to do, out of what? Spite? Anger? He stares wordlessly at his scarred palms as he remembers the day of the fall. The desperation he'd felt trying to claw his way through the rubble to get back to his partner a minute too late._

_If he'd managed to claw his way through and find his way back would it have changed anything? Would it have changed anything if instinct had demanded that he stay rather than flee?  It's hard to say. Maybe they would have survived together, maybe they would have perished, but staring at the body splayed on the steps in front of him it's an absolute and unflinching truth that this facility is in fact the building in which Owen died. There's no point in checking for a pulse, there's a messy hole where the back of his head used to be, but he has to know. On all fours, he crawls up the stairs carefully, avoiding touching blood as well as the body for as long as he can manage. It's with some reluctance that he finds himself leaning over the growing pool of blood to press his fingers to his dead lover's pulse point._

_For a moment he convinces himself that he can feel the pulsing beats of a heart still pumping blood. He almost says that it's impossible, but that's when the supposed corpse grabs his wrist with a grip like a vice and looks him directly in the eye. "Boo."_

_As he scrambles away with heaving breaths, he slams his back into the wooden railing of the landing. The hallucination had felt so real, but the body hadn't moved an inch since it fell. Owen might have been a dedicated actor, but not even he could stop his pulse at will or stop himself from blinking. An eternity passes as he stares at the corpse, watching for any possible signs of life before he finally raises his watch to the level of his mouth and calls Barb, who arguably might be among the last people he wants to speak to right now, but it's better than calling Cynthia directly._

_"Barb."_

_"Curt, are you okay? Do you read me?"_

_"Call the CIA, tell them to converge on my coordinates. He's dead, Barb."_

_"What do you mean he's dead? Who's dead? Are you okay?"_

_"The Deadliest Man Alive. I killed him... I'm looking at his body right now."_

_Stomach churns and knots at calling him that. As if they didn't have a history written in blood and sprawled out in bed sheets. Crossing countries and surpassing logic. The Deadliest Man Alive, Owen Carvour, could they really be the same person? It doesn't seem like it._

_It seems like he's at the butt of a cosmic joke, to find out the man he's been hunting is the man that he once held in higher esteem than all others. A man now dead at his hands, and he can hear Barb saying something but its all turned to static in his ears, a deafening crush of noise in near silence. Whatever she might or might not be saying, he interrupts rather suddenly._

_"-tell her to get ahold of MI6, too. They're gonna want to be in on this."_

_:"What? Why?"_

_"Because Owen Carvour wasn't dead. He is- was... the Deadliest Man Alive."_

_"But he's dead. You saw it yourself-"_

_"I saw him fall, but it didn't kill him apparently.  He's dead now, I'm sure of it."_

_"How did he die? Was there a fight? Are you hurt? "_

_"I shot him in the head at point blank range- Listen, Barb, I've got to save my battery. It's gonna take a long time for them to get here."_

_"But Curt are you-"_

_Ending the call abruptly, he turns off the communications without turning off the tracker, he needs to be alone right now. Well... alone as he can be while staring down a body. It's then that a major problem with the picture clicks into place with acuity.  Owen is unarmed. Regardless of his status as the Deadliest Man Alive, the fact that he'd shot an unarmed agent from another country would surely be cause for a massive international incident with one of the United States' biggest allies. It's not something he or Cynthia can risk. He needs to find that gun, and he needs to find it now. Sparing another look at the body, he climbs the railings rather precariously in hopes of reaching the catwalk a short distance away, the place he hopes the gun was knocked into, lest he be forced to find his way down into the rubble below to search for it._

* * *

     Hyperventilating on the kitchen floor, he's glad that Angelica is gone. It means that no one else sees him like this. Weak and pathetic, gasping for air when his lungs falter and break the pattern, with tears streaming down his cheeks. He killed him. Everything, everyone he cares about, he's destined to kill them. A cycle that started with Tommy and continued with Owen, with the Informant. Who's next? Tatiana? Angelica? His mom? The thought alone are enough to force himself to his feet if only to retch into the sink violently with a massive dry heave. He hates these feelings, the helplessness that comes in waves and refuses to be silenced by any means that he can conceivably achieve. _There are worse things in this life than dying and this_ , he thinks, _is one of them_. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 8.8l more words to go, expect more updates!


	5. Battle Scars

_The catwalk is empty, as he expected. Luck has never been his friend, he would hardly expect that to change in this particular moment. Karma is something he didn't used to believe in, but as he looks over the side of the unstable walkway at the rubble below, he's sure it's real and that some cosmic power in charge of it is having a great laugh at his expense. The metal groans loudly as he shifts his weight, and he winces. They'd done a number on this place, it's not surprising that its remained in ruins all these years._

_He tries to find a more stable railing to hold onto as he drops down to swing his way back to the staircase but it isn't until his full weight and indeed his survival is predicated on the bar that he realizes just how unsteady it is. There's little he can do to change things now, he's forced to commit to the action, and the hope that the metal pole will continue to hold him as he attempts to reach the staircase again. A fall from this height would probably kill him, and he knows it's likely what he deserves it with what he's done. Still, he forces his nerves to be steadier than his hold which shakes and rattles against the posts with every attempt to swing closer to the railing of the staircase. It's getting less stable with every swing, and while he's getting close, he's not close enough. Muscles strain and his teeth grit in defiance as he reaches and his fingertips brush the rail. The bar has been shifting steadily to the left since he started, and he knows that the next swing will have to be the last so he takes a deep breath and prepares himself to fall._

_As he predicted the last swing dislodges the bar, but he lets it go before it can drag him down with it, putting his full force of will into reaching the railing and hoping that if he manages to have any luck at all on this horrific day, that it happens here and now, and keeps him alive regardless of whether or not he deserves death. For a terrifying moment he is weightless, hanging in the air in what he imagines must be an almost cartoonish fashion as he reaches for his only hope for survival, and misses the railing by mere centimeters._

_Barely, he catches the side of a step, slick with blood where its run down, but it doesn't matter because he's survived. It feels like an eternity before he hears the loud sound of the hollow metal rod slamming into the debris below in a cacophony of echoing noise. That could have been him. He doesn't look down yet, instead putting his full focus on finding a better grip on the the steps, finding a steady grip on a supporting beam of the railing before he dares to let go of the bloody step. Squeamishness be damned, he has to survive this. There are no other choices. Survival has to take precedence, and as he slowly climbs his way up the railing to get a stable surface beneath his feet, Cynthia's words drift back to him._

_"If you want to stay alive you're going to have to work that flabby body harder than ever before."_

_Idly he wonders if she'd envisioned a situation like this, and as his muscles burn and ache in protest to the challenge of the climb up after the near acrobatic endeavor of swinging off of the catwalk and the rough catch, he makes a mental note that he needs to work out his upper body more. At his peak this would have been a mild workout at best, but today it's a challenge. Maybe it's a matter of grieving and a distracted mind that makes this more difficult than it needs to be. Finally, he gains a foothold, and hauls himself up before scampering over the railing and removing his leather jacket as he pants. It's not as if it's going anywhere, he decides, as he drops it on the landing, finally looking down to the rubble to see where the rod had landed, and winces to see it in the midst of a group of particularly jagged looking chunks of rebar and concrete._

_"That could have been me." He says to no one in particular, as he knows that there isn't anybody around to listen but a corpse. There's a suffocating amount of silence and he's forced to fill it in any way he can, even if it's talking to a dead man, or to whatever ghosts may still be lingering in this forgotten building._

_Despite knowing that time is a precious commodity, he sits at the landing catching his breath for what feels like an eternity. Facing away from Owen's body, his bloody fingers are wiped off on his slacks before he rests his head in his hands, trying to clear his mind. It's rare he's forced to so viscerally acknowledge the consequences of his actions. The destruction left behind has never been his burden to bear. Looking at the remnants of the facility, he questions why he ever wanted to return to this line of work. Why he'd sought glory in the bloodshed and how its hollowed him out so thoroughly. If it was only his own life and liberty on the line, he wouldn't take the time to descend into the wreckage, to stage things just right, but when an international incident hangs in the balance he's forced to swallow his personal feelings in the name of the greater good. It's one of the hardest things he's ever done to stand from the steps, and he can't look back or he'll lose his nerve. After what seems like an eternity standing on the precipice, he finally takes the first step._

 

     No one ever said that freedom was cheap or easily obtained. Sitting once again in a small interrogation room much like the first, Curt still feels demeaned by the fact that he had to be frisked when he entered the building. Constantly, he finds himself reminded of his ( _hopefully temporary_ ) demotion to civilian status, but at least he's allowed to wear his own clothes this time. It makes him feel a little bit more like a human as he stares across the table at the Interpol Agent and the mirrored wall on the other side. There's a temptation to call Cynthia out, but he resists it. That would only harm the both of them.

     "This is Agent Florence Caulfield, authorization number 28343130, case file 6172017. The date is October 13, 1961, second interview. For the record could you please state your first and last name?"

     The same rehearsed like that he's certain he's going to have entirely memorized by the time these rounds of interviews are done. A sigh, and he drums his fingers on the tabletop as he answers the question. "Curtis Mega."

     "You're looking well." The woman says, jotting some quick notes on the notepad in front of her. She hadn't had one of those last time.

     "Sleeping in my own bed, having my own clothes, a shave, it all makes a difference." Unconsciously, he scratches at the clean shaven skin of his cheeks, he didn't mean for that to come off so bitter, but there's little he can do about it now, so he shrugs nonchalantly, and waits for the next question.

     "I want you to tell me about the night that the Deadliest Man Alive died, also known as former MI6 agent Owen Carvour."

     There's a joke about the lack of foreplay on the tip of his tongue, low hanging fruit to say the least. Humor to deflect the fears of the truth being found out, to mask his volatile emotions. "Going straight for the big questions."

     "I don't like wasting time with inconsequential things." In spite of a neutral tone, her eyes are intent and her pen at the ready. "There are allegations that Agent Carvour's body was manipulated after death and that your shooting was staged. I'd like to hear your side of the story."

     "After he killed the Informant during the confrontation in Prussian Sloviskia, I gave chase. It was several hours long, and lasted well into the night... we ended up in the Russian weapons facility that we destroyed in the spring of 1957."

     "That's the mission in which you reported him dead, correct?"

     "I saw him fall 40 feet onto a concrete floor, and the building exploded shortly after that. I thought it was a reasonable guess to think that he was dead."

     "How did he fall?"

     "There was a faulty railing that broke. We were running from Russian officers and the building was starting to come down around us, he put his weight against the wrong railing, and it gave way. I would have stayed to help him, but I had the blueprints, and there wasn't a single way that I would have been able to get to him and make it out alive. My instincts took over and I made it out of the building." The railing gave way long before Owen ever touched it, and he still curses himself every day for dropping that damn banana peel every day. For setting the timer a minute shorter. For not allowing Owen to relock the safety barricades when it could have very well made it possible to find a way to get him home. There's guilt that can't be relieved.

     "Your file says you tried to find a way to get back into the building."

     "I did. Once I was out, I felt guilty. He was my partner, and I felt a duty to bring him back. Even if it was just as a corpse."

     "Did it ever occur to you that he might still be alive?"

     "Briefly, but not like this. I always knew there would be a chance that the blast wouldn't kill him instantly, but I hoped it would for his sake. What happened to him would have been unsurvivable. I don't know how he did it."

     "I see... Let's bring it back to the night of his actual death. He led you to weapons facility where the Russian Affair occurred?"

     "He did. He wanted to bring me back to where his new identity began."

     "And you both had guns on each other? What happened between you two prior to the shots being fired?"

     "I tried to convince him to turn himself in, he refused. He believed in what he was doing and he felt like I needed to pay for what I'd done. Apparently the torture wasn't enough."

     "I saw in your file that he tortured you as the Deadliest Man Alive. He also shot you then, didn't he?"

     "He did. I didn't know it was Owen at the time, but he would have killed me if Tatiana hadn't stepped in."

     "And that would be Tatiana Slozhno?"

     "Yes."

     "And where was she when this confrontation was happening?"

     "The Informant was still alive when I left but dying, and Ms. Slozhno was injured as well. She took a bullet to the arm. I couldn't be slowed down so she stayed with him presumably until he died. After that I have no idea where she went. "

     "So you have no idea how she managed to blow up an entire island in international waters?"

     "I didn't know about any sort of island until after I was arrested."

     "Ms. Lavernor seems to remember things differently."

     It's a bluff, he can see it in her eyes. For an Interpol agent, she's a terrible liar. Likely she's tried to bait Barb with similar lines about him, but she's smart enough not to fall for them. They all knew going in that the best course of action would be to feign ignorance if they were caught, and while revealing the supposed details of Owen's death was unavoidable, this isn't. "And what did she have to say?"

     "She says that she supplied her with stolen equipment from the CIA, and that Ms. Slozhno supplied the bomb. That it was her intent to begin unrest between Iceland and Canada for reasons not yet known to us... and she says that you told her supply a KGB agent with these stolen supplies. Is this true?"

     His eyebrow raises and it's a struggle not to look amused. If that's what they think then they might actually get away with this. "That's an interesting story... She must have quite an active imagination."

     Florence's eyes narrow, and she's watching closely, every twitch and every word carefully examined. "Tell me how you got shot, Mr. Mega."

     "You'll have to be more specific, Agent Florence." Even in these precarious circumstances, he can't resist the urge to be a smartass, especially now that he's seen how little they have on Tatiana. The woman had made a drastic mistake in tipping her hand so early and completely. They have nothing. It's why they were were forced to allow him to go home, despite still having to submit to these interviews. A formality, people trying to put together pieces of a puzzle without a concept of the bigger picture. He suddenly feels more secure in his skin.

     "In the Russian weapons facility."

* * *

  _The wreckage is somehow more impending when he's standing directly in front of it. What had seemed large from the landing 60 feet above was revealed to be utterly massive in perspective. Or maybe it simply looms larger when he can see the skeleton of a Russian security office pinned between two massive pieces of concrete. Perhaps more disturbing than the skeleton with tatters of clothing still hanging off of its frame is the brown streaks across the concrete. He's seen them enough times to know what they are in an instant and it makes him more wary of setting foot upon any of it. Dried blood. They'd still been alive when they were pinned and remained so long enough to claw at the unmovable force that held them in place until their fingers bled. They might have been a bad person, but they didn't deserve to die like this. It's cruel and inhumane._ _Thoughts flit through his mind of the story of this poor forgotten soul, but he's forced to push them aside. Somehow, he believes they won't be the last skeleton found in such a pose._

_Every instinct of survival tells him not to attempt to climb around the clearly dangerous jagged of concrete and metal interspersed with the occasional human remains, but he has no choice. It might be the only thing that stops an international crisis between two of the world's leading superpowers. Gritting his teeth, he grabs hold of an edge and ignores the shooting pain in his upper body from the previous endeavors and begins his voyage through the waste and destruction. He pretends he doesn't know where he's going to look first, but there's something puling him towards the same spot. He can see pieces of the wooden railing sticking up and he knows exactly what he's looking at. He has to see it for himself._

_Looking up, the staircase looks impossibly high. A deadly height, especially with the concrete played as it now is. A thought is spared for the contrasting thoughts of the british agent laying seemingly lifeless on the floor, and the image of the corpse on the steps with blood and brain matter splayed about like a disturbing rorschach test. He didn't care much about or for that test before he was a spy. Ever since whenever he sees them all he sees is blood splatter. As a result he's gotten very good at telling psychiatrists exactly what they want to hear. Carefully he examines the area and for a moment he forgets about the gun, instead he's piecing together the last moments of the Owen Carvour he once knew._

_Dried blood marks the trail, and he has to follow it back. Find the pools of blood underneath slanted pieces of concrete without a skeleton. It has to be from him, but he can't be certain. Not immediately. An innocuous scrap of fabric that someone else might have disregarded or simply not noticed is the key. Purple fabric from Owen's jacket that day. It must have been torn when Chimera removed him from his early tomb. Hand reaches out to touch it, the last piece of the man he knew, save for the gun tucked away in his DC home. In the exact moment his fingers brush against it that he hears the voice._

_"Isn't it strange that I could survive this, but I couldn't survive you? I mean you caused this too, but still."_

_In a thousand lifetimes, in a thousand accents, in any costume, any language he knows that voice. Maybe he had felt a pulse after all. He pulls his pistol and almost loses his footing in the process. It takes a moment to realize where it's coming from, and his gaze casts downward to the spot where Owen had fallen. He can see him there, his body the same as it had been when he fell, twisted in awkward angles, but his head is the same as the corpse above. Blown open with viscera surrounding it. The image itself would be disconcerting enough as it was, but the fact he could see him grinning was perhaps the most disturbing part of the image. He almost drops his gun._

_"You're dead." His voice trembles as he aims the gun at the corpse on the ground that he knows must be devoid because this combination of the old and new Owens doesn't exist. He can't. Paired with the fact he knows that no one had been there moments before, it must be a hallucination. Sleep deprivation. Trauma. Something._

_"Well you thought that once before and look how that turned out." Another one of those disturbing smiles that seems just a little too wide for his face. The destroyed head tips back to look at Curt and the american feels completely and utterly sick._

_"Are you really going to kill me again, Curt?"_

_Even knowing that this is all in his mind he's disturbed by the question and he looks at the gun in his grip wavering uncontrollably. If he tried to fire, if the threat was real, he'd never be able to hit a target shaking as violently as he is. White knuckle grip remains for a solid minute, the hallucination's eyebrow cocked seeming to question his ability to pull the trigger, and he knows that he's more liable to hurt himself than do anything productive like this. The one sided standoff ends when he relents and tucks the handgun back into the holster as he shifts uncomfortably where he stands._

_"You're not real, I can't kill you. You're already dead." He gestures up towards the landing, taking his eyes off the figure to glance up there. As if he'll somehow be able to spy the real Owen's corpse from here and confirm that this is simply a waking nightmare and nothing more. When his gaze falls back to the imaginary figure, it's reaching out for him with an expression that almost seems sad. "I shot you... Point black. Your body is up there... This blood?" He tugs at the collar of his shirt and gestures to where specks of it must certainly be smeared from his attempts to wipe it away. "Yours."_

_The hallucination does not drop its hand, instead it continues to stare at Curt with big, sad eyes. "If you can't kill me... don't leave me here. You can choose to save me this time."_

_Despite the logical fallacy, it's difficult for the american agent to ignore the plea. It's not real, he knows it, and yet he still feels himself reaching out. As though saving this figment will somehow in turn save the man. Turn back time to the Russian Affair and carry him out by any means necessary, or die together. They always knew that things could never last, but he was supposed to die before Owen. He was never meant to know a world without him, and now he must mourn him once again._

_Their hands are almost touching when he blinks and Owen is holding a gun, aiming it at him. "Did you really think I needed your help? Then you're even more of a bloody idiot than i thought."_

_Gunfire echoes in his ears and he stumbles, nearly falls but catches himself just barely. The hallucination is gone and now he remembers why he's down here in the first place. He needs to find Owen's gun, and he needs to find it soon._

_Two hours of scampering around concrete and metal, dancing around injuries that would be near impossible to explain away when the other agents eventually arrive. It's luck that he finds it at all, luckier still that he manages to find his way back to the staircase without sustaining major injuries in the process. It's a long way back to the landing, and his body feels on the verge of giving out when he reaches it._ _taring at the corpse, he debates the best place to put the gun before he realizes this is a bit too perfect. Managing a headshot at point blank range without being shot would be near impossible unless Owen's weapon lacked ammunition, but it doesn't. There's still four bullets in the chamber and he knows what he has to do._

_The science of shooting one's self in the shoulder to make it seem as though someone else did is far from an exact science. Especially when it has to be angled and done in a reasonably close range but not too close. The end result will require using the trigger with his thumb, but that's not how he sees it._

_"Does it help you to think of it as me doing it?" The image of Owen holding the gun is clear and crisp before him, even though he knows he's not there.  
_

_"Yeah, it does." The words unstick from the roof of his mouth and he's talking to the empty air, to his hand holding a strangely angled gun._

_"Good... I hope this hurts." For a moment he swears he can see the slightest uptick of a smile on Owen's face as he squeezes the trigger and the pain shoots through his shoulder._

* * *

     "How did you get shot, Mr. Mega?" The question is rephrased and repeated after the specification is made.

     "We both had our guns drawn, and agent Carvour tried to pull the trigger when I moved, and he only got my shoulder. I got inside his grip, and I did what I had to do."

* * *

_It hurts violently, but he still has one more thing to do before the other agents show up. Sitting on the landing, he's leaned back against the railing for support and he's stripped the jacket off again. No one would believe he managed to strip it off before getting shot, a sad casualty of the day. Fiddling with the watch, he turns the communications system back on and dials in on the only living person he wants to speak to before he's all but certainly hauled off in handcuffs._

_"Tatiana."_

_He says her name so calmly it would be difficult to guess that he's just been shot, or that he can see the figure of his dead ex lover sitting beside the corpse, smiling at him._

_"Tell her I said hi."_


End file.
